The scrutiny of any strange man provoked a sweaty terror. She could not risk going in the door, lest she run into Larry or Cathy drinking a nocturnal glass of milk or Mike raiding the refrigerator for snacks. He had nothing to guide him; for though the torches were blazing ruddily below, their gleam fell only on the side of the building. Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred.
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